


Grip Me Like an Animal

by Caelanmiriel



Series: the Fire and the Dancing [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Geralt cant fucking sleep, M/M, NSFW, Slight Dom/Sub, Witch! Jaskier, and Jaskier loves it, and what we like is bathtub scenes, because here in the witcher fandom we know what we like, blood mentions, but not during the sexy times, geralt is Bad at flirting, getting intimate in the bath, if you ever wanted jaskier to have a tiny pet dragon ive got your back, implications of blood drinking, there's tenderness there if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelanmiriel/pseuds/Caelanmiriel
Summary: “Well, have you tried going to a brothel?”Geralt pauses, certain he’s misheard. “Have I what?”“A brothel, Geralt. Have you tried putting your cock inside someone and repeatedly thrusting in and out, potentially falling into a pleasantly exhausted sleep in the afterglow.”In which Geralt can't fucking sleep, and he turns to a witch for help, whose solutions aren't exactly conventional.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: the Fire and the Dancing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951807
Comments: 43
Kudos: 561
Collections: Sordid Saovine - The Witcher Halloween Event





	Grip Me Like an Animal

Geralt has, over the years, developed a particular talent for politely shouldering his way through a crowd. It’s a skill that typically serves him well enough even in some of the more anti-witcher towns he passes through, the kind where people are actively looking an excuse to fight him, yet he can slip between them, firmly yet respectfully, without incident. This town, though friendly enough on the surface, is pushing his skills to the damn limit.

It’s not that people are intentionally trying to be obstructive, per se, only that the streets are more packed than Novigrad on Beltane night and people barely seem to register that he’s in their path, let alone that he’s a witcher, which is…novel, to say the least. Most people barely glance at him as he weaves between them, too occupied with flitting around hanging strings of black and white and pumpkin coloured flags, stacking wood for a bonfire, arranging little clusters of white candles and wooden bowls. A group of mummers are carefully painting each other’s faces besides a small troupe of musicians in the middle of warming up, though they don’t seem to be correcting their out of tune dulcimer, metallic and harsh. The scent of spices and desserts is on the wind as people ferry dishes to long tables, bigos and grilled oscypek, gołąbki and huge pots of barszcz, chrusciki and piernik and naleśniki overflowing with jam. Small troughs are filled with water, apples bobbing on their surface, and huge barrels of cider are being rolled over from the tavern, stacks of empty glasses already set out and waiting. Shuffling his way through the crowd is harder than it probably should be.

He can’t even say for sure which festival this is supposed to be. He doesn’t exactly bother keeping track of months, and certainly not of dates – all he needs to know is whether it’s cold enough to head to Kaer Morhen or not and how long it will take to get there – and even if he did, half these backwater towns have their own festivals anyway. There’s no guarantee it even is a festival – could be a wedding he’s wandered into the middle of. It’s not like he cares what it is. He’s not exactly here to join in.

It’s not even a contract that’s dragged him here, away from his peaceful and blessedly solitary path through the wilds - he’s here looking for the local _witch_ of all things, because no matter what he tries, he can’t fucking _sleep_.

A gods damned witcher, seeking out a backwoods witch because he can’t sleep. Lambert will never let him live this down.

On his way into town he’d collared the least harried-looking person he could find for directions and was told only, ‘head to the town square, you’ll know it when you see it’, which had seemed deliberately vague until, well, he sees it.

It’s a tall, narrow building, timber framed with jettied floors that bow a little in the middle, the dormer windows at odd angles to the roof and reflecting the low evening sun. The chimney is dangerously crooked, and the wisps of smoke drifting from it seem to have an odd lilac tinge. The front door and window frames have been painted a soft, purple-green sage colour, scuffed around the edges and washy from the rain; each window has a box of plants secured beneath it, some flowers, some trailing, most medicinal, mingling with the ivy that creeps up the front of the building. There’s an odd collection of things in the ground floor window, heavy tomes and clusters of feathers, hunks of crystals and elegantly painted skulls – bird, monster, human. A large jar of a viscous liquid that seems to be sluggishly moving sits innocuously by a healthy looking rosemary plant, and the sill is littered with birds’ feet, beetle shells, tiny little finger bones, jars of pointed teeth and amber dust and sap, an empty cushion sitting at the middle of it all. By the door is a fancy plaque carved of dark wood that, in excessively flowery language, announces ‘the humble witch Jaskier’, followed by an absurdly long name and a title that surely must be fake, and a list of academic qualifications and patrons and court appointments that Geralt couldn’t give one singular fuck about.

He expects the annoyingly cheery jangle of a bell as he swings the door open and ducks under the low frame, but all that greets him is the crackle of a fire, three steady heartbeats, and a quiet, inhuman chirring. As the door swings shut behind him, the noise of the square seems suddenly worlds away.

It’s a cramped, crowded shop, crammed with tables sagging under the weight of ingredients and tools and oddments, thick glass jars and open potion books covered in stains and spills, heavy with its own history. The air is thick with a complex assortment of smells, bundles of dried plants hanging from the old oak ceiling beams a scant few inches above Geralt’s head; he has to duck and weave around them, and it takes him a moment to locate the witch amidst the chaos.

He’s standing by a large cauldron that appears to be the source of the lilac smoke, stirring in a figure-eight pattern with delicate, willowy hands that tinkle with jewellery. He’s wearing high-waisted black trousers and a waistcoat in a rich, deep burgundy colour, double breasted and smart in silhouette, with complicated gold embroidery that glints in the light. His shirtsleeves are absurdly loose and billowy, except for where the embroidered cuffs are snug around his wrists; he probably thinks it looks fashionable, but all Geralt can think about is how many times the sleeves nearly dip into whatever’s in the cauldron. He has on a neatly cut little capelet pinned to the shoulders of his waistcoat with a pair of pretty gold flower brooches, the traditional pointed hat on his head, but there are flowers and feathers tucked around the brim, and he wears it perched at what is clearly a deliberately jaunty angle.

“Good evening. Just let me finish this,” the witch calls serenely, and absent note to his voice, almost an echo; when Geralt peers a little closer the man’s eyes are white over and misty.

Geralt sighs. He’s learnt the hard way not to interrupt a witch in the middle of a brew. He made that mistake exactly once, causing a spillage of some molten substance that promptly hardened on everything it touched, and was still there when Geralt next returned, several months later – he was promptly thrown out, which, understandable really. He glances around for an unobtrusive place to wait and spots an armchair the colour of moss, the cushion half-flattened under the weight of a stack of books, a large hunk of rose quartz on top. He shifts the stack to the floor and drops into the chair heavily, ignoring the cloud it releases of what smells like sulphur dust. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s had on his armour.

It’s both easy and difficult to find something to occupy himself with while the witch finishes up. There’s hardly a lack of things to look at, but there’s also entirely _too much_ to look at. Everything is too bright, multitudes of gems among richly coloured scraps of silk glittering in the light, harsh on his tired eyes. The room is lit by a number of floating, glowing orbs, drifting about and bumping gently into things. There is another armchair directly across from the one Geralt sets in, occupied by a very large, grey Great Dane; it seems to be in a half-doze, lazily wagging tail thumping against the upholstery softly. Above him, a spider is methodically spinning a web between a beam and a set of hanging brass scales. He watches it work for a little while, then his ears tune in to the odd chittering – a cat-sized, bronze-scaled dragon is winding around the witch’s legs. It meets Geralt’s gaze with a flat, unimpressed look, and trots haughtily over to the windowsill, scrabbling up and settling into the cushion there, its back to the room in a clear dismissal.

There’s a soft little fizzle from the cauldron and the witch straightens abruptly, shaking out his limbs then clapping his hands together once. “Right then!” he says brightly, turning to face Geralt. “My sincerest apologies for your wait and my thanks for your gracious patience. I hope I didn’t keep you too long. I am Jaskier, the witch-bard, and it would be my honour to assist you this evening.” He drops into a greatly flourishing bow of a kind that would be over the top even at court.

“Those are illegal,” Geralt says shortly.

The witch straightens up, looking bemused; he’s a pretty thing, too young to have been long at the craft, with the most unnaturally blue eyes Geralt has ever seen. They seem to shimmer as they track over Geralt’s face, like someone has unhooked the stars and hung them in his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

Geralt gestures to the little dragon in the window. “That. They’re illegal.”

The witch’s – Jaskier’s – face closes off a little, and Geralt suspects he’s about to be thrown out of another witch’s establishment. “Yes, well, one can only imagine how it feels to be centuries old and suddenly have a species younger than you decide that your existence is against their laws,” he says coolly.

“Come with me to Novigrad and find out,” Geralt says with a snort, “they’re not fond of witchers _or_ witches there. They’d have us both on a pyre before you can blink.”

“Witchers and witches. Now, doesn’t that have a lovely ring to it. Come out of the way please, Malcolm.” His face is sunny again, like he’s dismissed Geralt as a threat to the dragon. The Great Dane – Malcolm, apparently – climbs out of the armchair without further prompting and the witch takes his place, fishing inside his shirt and producing a leather-bound notebook and a pheasant-feather quill, but makes no move to produce any ink. “Let’s have our chat while my brew simmers. Since I haven’t heard whisper of any creature terrorising us that could summon the presence of a witcher, I assume there’s instead something _I_ can do for _you_? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look positively wretched.”

“This is just my face,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier tuts, but is smiling. “Nonsense, there’s an attractive man under that misery, plain as day.” He shoots a quick wink, but doesn’t seem to be flirting for the sake of keeping Geralt’s custom, which is certainly unusual. “Shall we start with your name?”

He says, “Geralt,” without really thinking about it, and immediately regrets giving up the anonymity of being just another witcher; there’s only one white haired witcher named Geralt, after all, and the revelation is usually followed by –

“Geralt of Rivia?”

That.

Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Geralt of Rivia.”

“You needn’t sound so reluctant about telling me your name, my dear, it’s not like I’m fae. I’m hardly going to steal it from you.”

“Me giving my name is usually followed by my strongly encouraged departure from the area.”

Jaskier tilts his head to the side like a curious little animal. “Why so?”

“You’ve heard of Blaviken.” It isn’t a question. Everyone’s heard of Blaviken.

Something clearly connects in the witch’s mind, his face shifting imperceptibly. “Well, yes, but I heard about it by way of _Stregobor_ , and given that he has the most _charming_ habit of engineering and manipulating situations for maximum personal gain and then lying about them afterwards, I’m disinclined to believe a word that comes out of his mouth,” he says cheerfully, writing something in his book despite there still being no ink to speak of; Geralt leans forward a little, and notes with displeasure that his name has been written at the top of the page in a tiny, flourishing scrawl.

“Don’t write that down. Why do you need that written down?”

“Oh, I keep notes for all of my clients, so that when you come back- “

“If.”

“- _when_ you come back, I know exactly what I made for you, so I can adjust the potency if needed, or so that if you had a reaction I know exactly what was used and can avoid the offending ingredient in future. I’m sure there’s all sorts of potions I could make you for your… witchery business, after all. I _would_ say I can brew you up a nice, potent strength booster that I’m sure would come in handy, but,” he takes a moment to give Geralt a proper once over, heat in his gaze even though Geralt knows for a fact he looks like shit, “somehow I don’t think you need it. Any allergies?”

Geralt blinks, a little taken aback by the quick turns between professionalism and what appears to be genuine flirting. “No.”

“Perfect, makes my job much easier. Anything reactive in your potions?” He rolls his eyes as Geralt opens his mouth to protest, cutting him off before he can speak. “I don’t need to know how to make them, I know how funny you witcher types get about that, I just need to know if there’s anything I can’t mix them with.”

“No.”

“And are you under the influence of any of those potions now?”

“No.”

“Visited any of my brethren, or the mages and sorceresses we must unfortunately call our cousins, for a magical intervention before?”

“No.”

Jaskier lifts his eyes from the page and smirks. “You know, you _can_ answer with more than one word.”

“Fuck off.”

This doesn’t deter him; if anything, he only seems more delighted. “Well, I suppose that does count. Go on then, tell me what ails you. Three words or less.”

Geralt tries not to admit to himself that the man’s apparently unending brightness is endearing. He normally finds it easy to follow Vesemir’s advice and avoid forming attachments, but somehow in less than ten minutes this man has managed to dodge every single one of Geralt’s barriers and plant a kernel of warmth somewhere in his chest. He thinks the blue eyes will stay with him once he leaves this place, follow him into his dreams, if he ever has them again.

“I can’t sleep,” he grumbles, reluctantly, as if it’s some sort of failing.

“Ah.” Jaskier snaps the notebook closed abruptly. “Well, if it’s a potion you’re after, forgive me, but I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”

Geralt gives him a flat look. “What.”

Jaskier shrugs, looking truly apologetic. “I can’t make a sleeping draught without powdered pearl, and I’m fresh out.”

“How can you be _fresh out_ ,” Geralt snaps, “you’re a _witch_.”

“Yes, I’m a witch, and today is _Saovine_. It’s my busiest day of the year, and that’s a common ingredient in a lot of my potions. It’s not like I’ve had time to go on a supply run to Skellige!”

Geralt drops his head into his hands and growls, perilously close to losing his temper.

“Now now, don’t let’s fuss. I may not be able to make a potion, but I can certainly spell you to sleep, no matter at all. I’ve some charming enchanted lullabies that do the trick quite nicely.” He pauses, giving Geralt a long, unimpressed look. “But for the record, they’re much more effective if you’re receptive to them, so it might help if you stopped looking like you’ve trodden in shit.”

Geralt tries to school his face into something more neutral. “Witchers’ have enhanced senses. Sight, smell, hearing. Right now they’re very…” He fumbles for the word.

“Frayed? Overwhelmed? More than understandable. I _do_ have some other things we can try, but they’re not so much magical as merely natural. I’m sure any herbalist could provide the same remedies, but we might as well give them a try since you’re here. No sense running off to the other side of town for the same services, after all. But if none of them work, do consider the spell. Fret not, I can sing very softly. Nobody enjoys a loud lullaby, after all.”

He rises gracefully from the chair, and Malcom immediately reclaims his seat. Jaskier drifts about the room, reaching up to gather the floating orbs of light into his hands; as soon as they touch his skin, they extinguish, turning into mere spheres of clouded glass. The almost-darkness soothes the sting behind Geralt’s eyes, and the consideration of it fans the warmth in his chest; if anything, he’s more used to dealing with people who would increase the lights and be smug in his suffering.

The dragon has picked itself up out of the window, clearly done with its little show of dominance and aloofness, and is back to winding around Jaskier’s legs, scratching its scales against the buckles on his boots.

“We’ll start with the tea, I think,” Jaskier says, more thinking aloud than speaking to Geralt. He moves around the shop like he’s untethered to the floor, gathering up a mismatched teapot and cup, plucking jars of dried flowers and chopped mint and lemon peel from the shelves without needing to look at them, all without tripping over or standing on the dragon. It’s clearly an art he’s well practiced in. “Always a sensible place to start, I find.”

“Tea?” Geralt asks, aiming for polite and missing, landing squarely on incredulity. “I come to a witch and he can’t give me magic so he gives me a cup of _tea_?”

Jaskier deposits his little collection onto the one small part of the table that’s actually visible under the mess, taking careful pinches from each jar and tossing them into the pot. There’s a kettle that seems to be perpetually steaming sitting on a windowsill with no clear source of heat, and Jaskier adds water from it to the tea and swirls it first clockwise, then anticlockwise, before pouring the cup. He doesn’t seem concerned with letting it steep, but at this point Geralt’s given up trying to keep track of all the odd magical quirks that keep presenting themselves.

“I would’ve thought a witcher would be more familiar with the properties of plants,” he says casually, with just a little bit of bite to indicate that Geralt is being gently reprimanded. “I’ve a lovely chamomile blend for you, very good for restful sleep, as you ought to well know, and a hot drink can do wonders for relaxation which, frankly, you need in spades. Why, have you already tried it?”

Geralt sighs heavily. “No.”

“Then shut the fuck up and drink it,” Jaskier says serenely. He adds a generous pinch of what is presumably sugar, stirs gently, then presents the cup to Geralt. “Here. Make yourself comfortable however you like. Take off your armour, lie down somewhere, take a blanket or two – oh, just not the one laid out in front of the fire. That one’s Hestia’s, and she’s terribly possessive.”

“Hestia?”

Jaskier nods towards the dragon, who seems to realise she’s being spoken about and chirps self-importantly, rippling her scales.

“Ah yes,” Geralt says dryly, “the _criminal_.”

Jaskier’s laugh is warm and bright and melodic, and it loosens a knot in Geralt’s chest.

As much as he’s not buying the idea that tea is going to fix all his problems – and he’s _really_ not buying it – he resolves to at least try and give it a fair shot. He’s here, after all, and if the witch is so convinced it has a chance of working there’s no harm in trying. He does know, after all, that chamomile is supposed to help, but the problem is that human remedies don’t often work on witchers. Anything’s worth a try, at this point.

He sets the cup carefully down on top of the book stack he’d dumped out of the chair so he could sit and removes his swords, tugs off his boots, then the bulkiest parts of his armour, pointedly ignoring the way Hestia pokes her head curiously inside each piece in turn as he discards them on the floor. She watches him shift around to get comfortable, propping the cushion up behind his shoulders, but when he picks the cup back up she leaps up into his lap. She gives him a long, considering look, then takes herself in small circles a few times before settling, curling up and beginning to purr, rumbly and deep. Geralt can feel it in his chest, the vibrations lodging behind his ribs.

He looks up as he raises the cup to his lips and sees Jaskier gazing at him, resting both elbows on a table and his chin in his hands, looking a little smug as if he’s already been proven correct.

“Piss off,” Geralt grumbles. “Haven’t you got shit to do?”

“Right! Yes! You just, you know, keep making yourself nice and comfortable and I’ll just…be over here. Doing potion things.”

He spins neatly in place, ridiculous capelet flaring out, then slinks away with the air of someone who got caught doing something they aren’t particularly sorry about. Geralt rolls his eyes at the man’s back, then decides to simply close them so he doesn’t get distracted by whatever fool thing he inevitably does next.

He tries to slip into a half-meditative state, not the full meditation that can only serve as a replacement for real sleep for so long (and outlived its usefulness several days ago), but enough to steady his heartbeat and breathing into something at least resembling relaxation. He finally takes a sip of his tea, rolling it around his mouth to let the flavour linger before he swallows; the sharp tingle of mint mixes pleasantly with the delicate chamomile, followed by just a hint of sweetness. The dragon is a comforting weight on his lap, rumbling contentedly, tiny wisps of smoke from her nose mingling with the steam of Geralt’s cup as it warms his hands, the scent of cinders tickling his nose and the gentle crackle of the fire in his ears. From outside comes a cheer; Falka must be on the bonfire. He shuts out the sound of the revels in the square and focuses instead on the three heartbeats in the room, witch and dog and dragon, each a little out of time and rippling into undulating music, like soft waves on the shore. He lets his breathing slip into their rhythm, three of Jaskier’s breaths to every one of his, soothing in their gentle regularity.

Something explodes. Geralt rockets to his feet, eyes wide and wild. His cup smashes on the floor. The dragon tumbles from his lap, skittering and yowling across the floor. The dog begins to bark, leaping from its doze in the chair. In the middle of it all, Jaskier is coughing and swearing, trying to clear the acrid smoke pouring from his cauldron.

“Fucking Cleaver!” he hisses, waving a hand through the smoke. “Fucking _cock_. I need to have a word with that man about the spirits he’s selling me, vodka _my arse_. _”_ He snatches up a bottle of clear liquid and sniffs, face stormy. “ _Rum!_ This is just unaged rum, and cheap rum at that! It’s lucky I was leaning away, I could’ve lost my fucking eyebrows.”

“Could’ve lost a damn lot more,” Geralt growls, stooping to snatch up the shards of porcelain before the dog can stand on them and cut a paw.

“Well, yes, but losing my eyebrows would have been a tragedy. I have marvellous eyebrows. I’ve been told they have a nice lustre.”

Geralt gives him a flat look. “They’re _eyebrows_.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , mister stating-the-obvious-is-my-speciality. Some of us have to work to look good, you know, we can’t all be all rugged and jawline and – and – well, _you_.”

Geralt growls; he is, quite frankly, too tired for this. “I thought you were a professional.”

“I _am_ a professional!” Jaskier cries, insulted, hands on his hips.

“The _explosion_ says differently.”

“It’s hardly _my_ fault if my supplier isn’t providing me with what I paid for! Either that or he’s too careless with his labelling and is mixing things up, but whatever the reason I can assure you I am absolutely not responsible for another person’s mistakes,” he says archly.

“You should _check_ , you should know better,” Geralt snarls, stomping over to leave the remnants of the cup in the basin in the corner.

“Don’t you snap at me, you – ah. We were trying to get you relaxed and now I’ve gone and done the opposite. Well, no wonder you’re so wound up.”

Geralt sighs, the fight abruptly leaving him as the exhaustion creeps back in. “Sorry. About the cup.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Jaskier says airily, “I’ve shattered more throwing them at people’s heads, you wouldn’t believe some of the impertinent people that wander in here. I’ve certainly had plenty of those Novigrad types, they haven’t been in with torches and pitchforks quite yet, but it’s been a near thing. Shall I make you another cup, a little stronger this time, perhaps? You seemed peaceful enough over there, practically part of the furniture.”

“No, don’t bother.” Geralt drops back into the chair wearily, making a point of ignoring the way Hestia hisses at him in betrayal, as if he was the one going around blowing things up with rogue abandon. “Got any other ideas?”

Jaskier hums a tuneful little spell under his breath to clean up the spilled tea. “Sure I can’t tempt you with a song? I could have you out like a light in no time at all, few minutes tops.”

“Head can’t handle it,” Geralt grudgingly admits; with his ears still painfully ringing from the explosion even the quiet hum is too much, and it’s undoubtedly enough to interfere with the spell to the point of keeping it from working.

“Well, I’m not sure I’ve got many ideas left. I’m a _witch_ , Geralt, I deal with _magical_ remedies. There’s only so many things I can suggest.” He sighs thoughtfully and clambers back into the other chair, folding his legs under himself and contorting into a position that can’t possibly be comfortable. He reeks of smoke and the sharp crackle of magic. “You know, I’ve been told having a nice heart-to-heart can help, well, lighten the heart as it were. Hard to settle down and sleep with thoughts running through your head, after all. I imagine you must run into all sorts of tricky things in your line of work, not least because of the vile way people insist on treating you. Talking about your troubles might be exactly the kind of catharsis you need to- “

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, okay, fair enough. You know, you sure aren’t making this easy on me. Well, worry not, there’s something out there that’ll work for you, and I’ll figure out what it is even if it takes me all night. I’m not going to just give up on you.”

Geralt hums dubiously. That’s a lie he hasn’t heard in a while.

Jaskier appears to be lapsing into deep thought, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together and chin propped on top of his hands. He’s clearly running through whatever limited options he has left to throw at Geralt. While his dedication – or perhaps more accurately, _stubbornness_ – isn’t unappreciated, Geralt’s starting to wonder if he shouldn’t have just gone to seek out another witch who could make the potion he needed, even though he knows full well the next closest town large enough to have a witch of their own is at least a day and a half’s travel away. And, somehow, it feels like a betrayal. Like as soon as he’d met Jaskier’s eyes as they’d sized each other up, something hooked into his soul, and Jaskier somehow became _his_ witch. He briefly wonders if perhaps it’s some sort of magic, to tie people into returning, but if it is magic, it’s not a kind his medallion has picked up on, and the only thing it remains silent on tends to be the fae, which Jaskier clearly isn’t. It seems to be nothing more than his natural charm, his warmth, his _sincerity_. He is _annoyingly_ endearing. Geralt _hates_ it.

There’s a soft snoring from over by the fire – Malcolm has fallen asleep on the blanket that apparently belongs exclusively to Hestia, and she certainly isn’t happy about it, hissing up a storm with ferocious determination. From outside, distant and almost lost under the riot of noise from the crowds, a harsh screeching repeated in triplicate.

“Banshees are out,” Geralt comments idly.

He isn’t expecting Jaskier to light up at the news.

“Maybe that’s it! You just need to do something physical, wear yourself out a bit. Your body can only fight physical exhaustion for so long, right? Get out and hunt some banshees for a while.”

Geralt blinks at him for a moment. “I’m a witcher,” he says finally, “ _everything_ I do is physical.”

“And it hasn’t worked?”

“It _very clearly_ has not worked.”

“Well, humour me anyway.” He unfolds himself from the chair and swiftly collects Geralt’s discarded armour, depositing most of it in his lap, then has the audacity to take Geralt’s arm and begin buckling the bracer on himself. His hands are smooth and uncalloused, warm where they catch Geralt’s bare skin at the point between his sleeve and glove.

Geralt snatches his arm away before Jaskier can feel the shiver that runs through him. “Maybe I should humour _myself_ and not come back,” he says testily.

Jaskier shrugs, turning to get on his hands and knees and rummage under one of the overladen tables – Geralt very deliberately does _not_ look at the man's rear. “If you leave and manage to fall asleep your own way I shall be quite happy all the same. If my customers are satisfied, that’s good enough for me,” he says cheerfully, voice muffled from the depths under the table.

“I’ll pay you in satisfaction then, shall I?” Geralt says dryly as he returns his swords to his back.

“I don’t hear banshee hunting!”

Geralt levels a hard glare at Jaskier’s back, certain the witch can feel it even if he can’t see it, and rips the door open to head back into the square. The noise is immediately deafening. There must be some sort of enchantment on Jaskier’s building to dampen the noise that seeps through, relegate it enough to the background that it can be easily forgotten. There’s no way a simple closed door could be enough to block out the force of _this._

If he thought people were rowdy earlier on in the day, it’s nothing compared to now, when they have their work behind them and a few ales inside them. The air is thick with the smell of sugar and bonfire and sweat, peoples’ bodies hot from the fire and the dancing. The dulcimer has, thank the gods, been tuned, but it’s almost lost beneath the heavy beat of the drums, reverberating through the earth as people stomp their feet in time, clapping along to raucous quadrilles and reels. Glasses clink together, spilling hot cider and wine. There are candles lit in every window and all around the square. A man darts around in a monster mask (though no monster Geralt has ever encountered, to be sure), jumping out to scare the children, who shriek and barge into Geralt as they run past. The banshee screech is sharper now, clear like a bell, but far off enough he doesn’t think human ears will have heard it.

“Melitele’s glorious thighs, I love Saovine!” a bright voice announces beside him, and Geralt whirls about with a scowl.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he demands. “You better not be following me, don’t you dare follow me.”

Jaskier is locking up the shop, a laden basket hanging from his arm that smells of the sort of antics Geralt shouldn’t ask about in detail. “I have offerings to make. You know, the fae, at the cemetery, the Lady of the River. I’ll meet you back here later on, shall I? If you get back before me, just knock five times, Hestia will know to let you in. I taught her to work the locks. Clever little thing, she is. Oh! You’ll want these.” He shoves a small velvet pouch into a bewildered Geralt’s hand, then leans in to press a kiss to Geralt’s stubbled cheek, lips dry and soft. “Bye dear, be safe!” He gives a cheery wave, then disappears into the crowd before Geralt can say anything.

Geralt reaches up to his cheek, brushing his gloved fingertips over the spot where Jaskier had kissed, the spark of it lingering in his skin. He forces himself to leave it alone, tugging open the pouch; inside is a pair of moulded beeswax earplugs, and he wastes no time shoving them inside his ears gratefully.

Okay, so _maybe_ he likes the witch. He’s not going to admit it.

When Geralt makes his way back into town a few hours later, the festival is still going strong, and the smell of fresh blood hangs heavy in the air. For once, it isn’t him. The earplugs had prevented the banshees wails from disorienting him too harshly and he was mostly able to keep them from getting in close, though there were a few lucky swipes he wasn’t able to dodge in time, reflexes slow and worn thin. The scratches are bleeding a little, but mostly he’s just covered in the damn dust they explode into.

The smell of blood, alarmingly, gets stronger the closer he gets to Jaskier’s shop.

He doesn’t even think before he shoulders the door open roughly; there’s a loud yelp as he crashes through, but it’s not a sound of fear or pain like he expects, merely surprise. He freezes with his hand going for his sword, wild eyes flicking around the shop, still on the adrenaline high of the hunt. All he sees is the witch and his damn pets – no violent intruder, no monster, or whatever else Geralt was expecting to find. He sags a little, dropping his hand.

Jaskier says something, sarcastic by the look of him, but whatever it is is muffled by the beeswax. Geralt digs the plugs out of his ears and shuts the door firmly behind him, keeping the racket of the festival outside.

As it happens, Jaskier _is_ covered in blood; his pretty clothes are ruined, but he seems completely unbothered, like this is just a normal evening for him. Hells, maybe it is. He’s trying to wipe the worst of it from his face with a delicate lace handkerchief, but doesn’t seem to be doing much more than merely moving the mess around. Geralt tries to sniff the air without being too obvious – it smells like goat blood, but it’s partly masked by the smell of damp and cold and river mud, yarrow and gardenia, apples and amber and pine. He’s wet up to his waist, boots leaving muddy footprints across richly coloured rugs.

“What the fuck did you do?” Geralt growls, trying to ignore the blood around Jaskier’s mouth and the implications of how it got there.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, setting his hat down on a chair and ruffling his hair with both hands. “An offering, I told you. Honestly, Geralt, do you just tune it out when others speak? Is that a witcher thing or just a you thing? Because if it’s a you thing, I’m willing to overlook it this one time on account of your clear exhaustion. How are you feeling, by the way? Sleepy?”

“I know you said – I meant specifically what did you – you know what, never mind. No, I’m not feeling sleepy.”

“Damn. Well, it was a long shot to begin with. Like you said, it’s not like witchers are particularly sedentary. If physical work was enough to put you asleep, I dare say you’d barely be awake, the amount you must do. I did find something new to try while I was out though, look!” He grabs for where he’s left his basket abandoned on the floor and produces a small bundle of unimpressive flowers. “Skullcaps! They should all be gone this time of year, but I found these stubborn bastards at the edge of the cemetery. Reckon there’s something in the soil ‘round there. I did try bringing some home with me one time for my own plants, but whatever was in it didn’t seem to work the same, so perhaps it’s the area itself? Anyway! There’s another tea we could try, and I think coupled with a hot bath we might be on to something. A bath was my next suggestion anyway, and probably my last to be honest, hot water does wonders after all, but now I think it’s a necessity. You’re looking a little…well. Sparkly.”

Geralt huffs, and unapologetically starts to brush the spectre dust off his armour, all over the floor and the furniture. The dog sneezes loudly. “Fine,” Geralt growls tiredly. Jaskier doesn’t need to know that a hot bath is one of the few pleasures Geralt allows himself, and easily his favourite.

Jaskier smiles sunnily and takes off his boots, emptying out a small stream of water from each (and what, did making an offering to the Lady of the River mean swimming in the damn thing?), then leaves them by the fire to dry and gestures grandly to a narrow staircase almost entirely hidden by an overladen bookcase. The staircase creaks musically on their way up, and they both have to duck to avoid the low ceiling. Jaskier leads him up a further two flights of stairs, past a cosy sitting room and a study mostly taken up by an ornate chess table, a dark room filled entirely with rare, night-blooming plants and another with naught but instruments on intricate stands. He takes them all the way up to the attic, to what is _clearly_ his bedchamber, with a privacy screen and a large wooden tub in the corner. It’s a lot less chaotic than the shop floor, though there’s certainly no lack of books stacked precariously about the place. The large bed is shoved into the corner, where the light from the dormer windows will fall first thing in the morning, and its thick mattress is opulently covered in silks and furs. A shelf by its side is covered in little trinkets, crystals and dried flowers and a small vial of liquid that seems to swirl and shimmer of its own accord, a silver handheld mirror and a comb made of bone, smooth with age. A rainbow of fancy clothes are hanging neatly on the privacy screen and folded atop a chest, silks and velvets and lace.

Jaskier picks up a glass globe and blows softly into it; it begins to glow like the ones downstairs and floats out of his hand, bumping around the ceiling with quiet little clinks when it hits the beams.

Geralt nods towards the bed. “Forward of you. You always bring strange men into your bedchamber?”

“Look at you, cracking a joke,” Jaskier says with a grin, “I bet you’re a delight when you’re fully awake and at your best, aren’t you? I expect to be thoroughly amused when you wake up nicely well rested tomorrow morning.”

“If.”

“ _When_.” He heads over to the tub, picking up a wooden bucket by its side that is full of water and already steaming; there must be some sort of bottomless enchantment on it, because when he upends it over the tub the water simply keeps coming until the tub is full. Jaskier sets the bucket aside and waves a hand towards the screen as he critically appraises a collection of small bottles. “Just pop behind there and get your kit off when you’re ready, I’ll add a little something to the water then go brew your tea. I should’ve brought the passionflower up with me, save myself the trip.”

Geralt isn’t a particularly modest person. It’s not exactly a trait you become inclined towards when growing up in a keep filled with hundreds of boys and warriors and not a single female influence, so he simply starts to shuck his clothes in the middle of the room, shedding spectre dust as he goes. Jaskier is so focused on his clearly important bottle selection that he doesn’t even notice, taking the cork out of each one and sniffing critically; Geralt is fully naked by the time he makes his decision, pouring in a few drops each from two different bottles, then flitting off down the stairs without a backwards glance. Geralt climbs immediately into the tub, sinking down into the hot water with a pleased sigh. The scent of lavender and lemon balm drifts up, subtle enough that it doesn’t overwhelm his nose but still strong enough to be enjoyable. All the sound is muffled up here, like his head is under the water – all he hears are the faraway sounds of the festival, like it’s in the next town over instead of right underneath the window, and the three gentle heartbeats several floors below, a quiet clinking of glass bottles, the grind of a pestle and mortar. It all feels too much like the domestic life a witcher could never have, but he’s content to simply let the heat of the water relax his muscles, and pretend.

He can hear when Jaskier finishes making the tea, the quick patter of his feet back up the stairs. He looks pleasantly surprised to see Geralt in the bath, like he’d expected Geralt to put up more of a fight, and presents him with the cup.

“Try not to break this one, alright?” he says with a playful wink.

“Try not to blow anything up,” Geralt snips back.

Jaskier smiles serenely. “No promises.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, but he thinks the effect is rather diminished by him sipping at his tea, so he settles for sinking lower in the water, like some lurking predator. Jaskier seems annoyingly unbothered by Geralt’s intimidation attempts, brushing them off completely as he goes back over to the bucket of hot water. He pours a little into a shallow basin, strips out of his bloodied clothes and down to his chemise, and starts methodically cleaning the blood from his skin with practiced movements. The repetitive movement of his hand from the water to his face and back again is somehow soothing, numbing to Geralt’s brain, and it’s pleasant to simply luxuriate in the water, sip his tea, and watch.

He finishes the drink at the same time Jaskier decides – falsely – that his face is clean enough, tipping the water away before Geralt can inform him otherwise and drying his hands on his ruined shirt.

“You missed a spot,” Geralt rumbles as he sits up, reaching over the side of the tub to set the cup down on the floor. Jaskier scowls and begins to swipe at his face with the sleeve of his chemise, managing to miss the mess every single time, and Geralt snorts. “Just come here.”

Jaskier obediently kneels by the side of the tub, and for all his earlier flirting, he’s polite enough _not_ to look at anything below Geralt’s chest. Geralt scoops some water into a cupped hand and carefully wipes away the blood around Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier’s skin is soft and warm, cheeks a little flushed.

“Thank you,” he says with a gentle smile, leaning against the edge of the tub. “The tea should work pretty quick if it’s going to take effect. Feeling any sleepier?”

“No,” he says honestly, but somehow feels bad for it; at this point Jaskier almost seems more disappointed than Geralt that he’s still awake.

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “I’ve only got one idea left, but at this point it might be easier to just spell you. You’ll have to decide soon, once Saovine officially ends at midnight, my musical spells won’t work again until after Imbaelk.”

“Hm. What’s your other idea?”

“Well, have you tried going to a brothel?”

Geralt pauses, certain he’s misheard. “Have I what?”

“A brothel, Geralt. Have you tried putting your cock inside someone and repeatedly thrusting in and out, potentially falling into a pleasantly exhausted sleep in the afterglow.”

He snorts. “They charge witchers double. I haven’t got the coin.”

“What, even Teofila in the next town over?”

“She wanted triple.”

Jaskier scowls viciously, nostrils flaring in outrage. “Oh, you wait until I see her next! See how _she_ likes it when she gets charged triple.” He affects a high, simpering voice. “Oh, I’m _so sorry_ , Teofila, the caravans are getting attacked _constantly_ , it’s just _awful_ , all my suppliers have put their prices up so I simply have _no choice_.”

Geralt gives him a playful shove, though he minds himself to be gentle with the human. “Don’t alienate your neighbours for the sake of a witcher.”

“I’ll do what I like, thank you,” he says primly, swatting at Geralt’s arm. “And speaking of doing things I like, I’ve a perfectly serviceable bed over there if you wanted to give the whole ‘putting your cock inside someone’ thing a try. I’m perfectly amenable if you are.”

“Really? ‘Speaking of doing things?’ _That’s_ what you’re going with?”

Jaskier grins, unapologetic and downright mischievous. “Got you to smile, didn’t it?”

Geralt hadn’t even noticed, and schools his face back into neutrality. “This is a grimace.”

“Of course, my mistake.” He stands back up and pats Geralt on the shoulder. “Take some time and think on it, I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt’s hand darts out and latches around Jaskier’s wrist, tugging him back to the side of the tub. “I don’t need time to think on it,” he murmurs. “You are…not unattractive.”

Jaskier snorts softly, but catches Geralt’s hand in his own and moves to kneel behind him, taking Geralt’s hand with him and wrapping his arms around the witcher’s chest so they’re thoroughly entangled. “What a ringing endorsement.” He lets his nails scrape lightly down Geralt’s chest, lips on the shell of his ear. “’Not unattractive’. I’ll have to remember that one. Got any more charming compliments you’d care to grace me with?”

Geralt shifts backwards, crowding into the warmth of Jaskier’s space. “I’ve paid for whores I liked less.” It’s true, too. He’s spent many a coin on whores he barely found pleasing, simply looking for release. Jaskier isn’t just pretty, he’s…surprisingly pleasant company.

“Tell me more.” He nudges Geralt’s chin gently upwards, baring his neck. “ _Woo_ me.”

“You suggest this just because you wanted me to compliment you? Or were you just after a fuck?”

“Oh, no, I really think it might help. If I only wanted to fuck you I would’ve simply said. I can be _quite_ shameless.” He lets his teeth graze over Geralt’s neck, barely light enough to tease.

“I know. Don’t think I didn’t see that look downstairs.”

Jaskier only chuckles, his breath tickling Geralt’s skin. He presses slow, deliberate kisses to each scar he finds on Geralt’s shoulder, as if they’re something to be revered, a legacy of battle cries instead of mistakes. Geralt hasn’t the heart to correct him as he leaves lingering, open mouthed kisses to the mark of wyvern’s talons, curving from the top of his arm to his collarbone, remnants of a wound deep and angry soothed under Jaskier’s soft lips. He rubs his cheek against Geralt’s for just a moment, sighing sweetly at the burn of his stubble, chasing it, then kisses along his jawline, the scars on his cheeks, his forehead. Every time Geralt thinks he might get to feel Jaskier’s lips on his, he’s disappointed, feeling only the ghost of it, teasing at the corner of his mouth. He makes a bold move to claim them, but Jaskier pulls away, smirk insolent.

“You’re supposed to be wooing me, Geralt. Earn it.”

He returns to Geralt’s neck, and the sharp sting of teeth takes him by surprise. His cock twitches in interest, Jaskier’s tongue sneaking out to taste where he’d bitten, licking the warm water from his skin.

Geralt presses his face into Jaskier’s neck. “I love your mouth,” he murmurs into the skin, “love how it sounds when you say my name.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

Jaskier still has one hand tangled with Geralt’s, but the other is roaming languidly over Geralt’s chest, through the wiry hair. “I love – _fuck_.” His voice catches as Jaskier rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then pinches, quick and sharp, an impatient demand for Geralt to continue. “Your hands. I love your hands. They’re so…graceful.”

That wasn’t what Geralt was expecting himself to say, and it clearly wasn’t what Jaskier was expecting to hear either.

“Shit, Geralt,” he says breathlessly, “I didn’t expect you to actually woo me.”

He presses fluttering little kisses up the side of Geralt’s neck, teasing; Geralt’s free hand reaches up blindly to bury itself in Jaskier’s hair, fingers gripping the silky stands like he’ll sink below the water if he loosens his grip. He tugs just a little and is rewarded with a gasp, so he does it again, harder, and Jaskier moans right down his ear, low and desperate.

He turns to catch Jaskier’s lips, but Jaskier moves before he can catch him, sucking marks down Geralt’s neck with determination, teeth against his collarbone. Geralt chases him down, kisses at Jaskier’s cheek, his jaw, but fails to catch his prize. He growls impatiently, yanks Jaskier up by his hair, and the positively filthy noise Jaskier makes is lost into Geralt’s mouth as he finally claims him. He tastes faintly of blood, but also of honey and apples, of crisp autumn mornings and warm summer evenings. Now he has Geralt’s mouth on his he doesn’t seem to want to give it up, letting go of Geralt’s hand to cup bruisingly at his cheek as he kisses, kisses, kisses, hard and hot and filthy. Geralt’s hands are on his shoulders, soaking his chemise, and he doesn’t think before dragging him into the water, clothes and all. Jaskier barely seems to notice, kissing at whatever skin Geralt will allow him access to, directed by the firm hand in his hair that has him shivering and whimpering with want every time Geralt tugs.

Geralt yanks Jaskier’s chemise free from where it’s tucked into his trousers, sliding his hand inside and up, tweaking a nipple as he turns the tables and bites at Jaskier’s throat. Hand hovering over his heart, he can feel the rabbiting heartbeat, the way Jaskier’s chest heaves with his panting breaths, and Geralt tugs him backwards by his hair so he can get a good look as his hand trails lazily downwards, hooking inside the waistband of his trousers, teasingly trailing over his hip. The chemise is soaked right through, clinging to every line of Jaskier’s body, the slim waist, the surprising muscle; the pale fabric is almost entirely see through, revealing hints of dark hair and dark nipples, hard and begging for attention. He no longer has the patience to peel him out of it, just takes the delicate v of the neckline in his hand and _rips_ , yanks at the fabric until the scraps of it fall away and Jaskier’s eyes go dark and half-lidded, his mouth hanging open in a noiseless moan.

“I swear by every fucking god, Geralt, I need you to tie me down and _break_ me. The fucking _strength_ of you, gods, I want to feel you for _weeks_. Please, please, I’ve been so good, ruin me, please.”

Geralt catches his cheek in his hand, running the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s lower lip for a moment before pushing it past his laps, into his mouth. “Another time.”

Jaskier whines, bracing a hand on the side of the tub for balance as Geralt pushes him backwards, giving himself room to reach Jaskier’s chest. He slips another two fingers into his mouth and Jaskier sucks on them eagerly; he tries to grab at Geralt, but Geralt is quicker, snatching his wrist and holding it away, denying him even as Jaskier makes needy little noises. Geralt nips at his throat, sucks vivid bruises and relishes the way Jaskier squirms, the way he moans just that little bit louder at every bite, muffled though it is around Geralt’s rough fingers pressing down on his tongue. He doesn’t bite like Jaskier does, no intention to tease but to _mark_ , the crescent shape of his teeth embedded in Jaskier’s skin in silent possession. He _feels_ every shudder, every twitch, as he tongues at a nipple, then bites around the sensitive flesh – Jaskier’s whole body jerks desperately, trying to find something to roll his hips against. His skin tastes just a little of smoke and sweat as Geralt sucks at him, alternating between flicking his tongue over the pert bud and scraping his teeth. He knows Jaskier wants to put his hands all over him, but he refuses him that, even as he takes his hand from Jaskier’s mouth to shove impatiently at his hip.

“Stand up, and keep your hands to your fucking self. You touch your cock and I’ll leave you tied to a chair and desperate while you watch me get myself off, and you’ll stay there until I think you’re sorry,” he growls.

Jaskier makes a helpless noise, pretty eyes glazed over, and awkwardly gets to his feet, legs visibly trembling. Geralt grabs him by the thighs, digging his fingers into the flesh to keep Jaskier’s hips still, and presses his face into where his cock is straining at his trousers, mouthing at the fabric. Jaskier tries to press his hips forward, but there’s no give in Geralt’s grip, no quarter given.

“Geralt, please –“

Geralt swats admonishingly at his thigh, hard enough to sting and relishing in Jaskier’s pleased groan, but he hasn’t got the patience to tease him for much longer. Or at least, not tonight.

“Take your trousers off, get some damn slick, and get on the bed,” Geralt orders as calmly as he can, his own chest heaving.

Jaskier scrambles to obey, half the water sloshing out of the tub with him as he struggles out of his wet clothes. It’s an enjoyable sight, the way his cock springs free, red and flushed among dark hair; he knows Jaskier’s own eyes are on him as he stands out of the bath, even as the witch fumbles with a little bottle and all but throws himself on the silk sheets. As much as everything in him wants to pin him down and fuck him ‘til he can’t walk, Geralt knows he hasn’t got the energy, so he settles for arranging himself propped up against the pillows while Jaskier presses impatient kisses to any part of Geralt he can reach, then abruptly yanks Jaskier into his lap, pressing their hips together. The noise Jaskier makes is downright _wicked_ , but he has the sense to keep his hips still even as Geralt sinks his teeth into his shoulder and he shudders all over.

Jaskier wraps himself around Geralt, head in the crook of Geralt’s neck, trying to press himself against every bit of skin that he can as he babbles nonsense pleas and praises. Geralt lets a hand drift downwards, rewards Jaskier’s patience with a calloused hand around the velvety skin of his cock, drawing out a breathless moan with each languid stroke. He rubs his thumb over the slit as he pulls the cork from the bottle of slick with his teeth, smearing precome around the head. He abandons the endeavour only so he can grab at Jaskier’s ass, pulling a cheek aside and dribbling the slick over his hole, Jaskier hissing at the cold of it. He spills slick all over the sheets as he coats his fingers, wraps an arm tight around Jaskier’s waist to press them together as he slowly slips a finger inside, Jaskier’s hole twitching around him. Jaskier’s frantic noises have taken on a higher pitch as he tries to rock back onto Geralt’s finger, so Geralt lets him, lets Jaskier fuck himself open on Geralts fingers, his nails scoring lines down Geralt’s spine. He takes two fingers easily, then three, dripping slick between his legs as Geralt murmurs against the shell of his ear that he’s being so good, feels so good, hot and wet and _so fucking good_. It’s not until Jaskier is trembling around four fingers, whining with the stretch, that Geralt kisses him again, tongue in Jaskier’s mouth, nipping at his lip then sucking over the mark. He reeks of sweat and lust, heady and sweet, the air thick with it.

“Ride me,” Geralt demands, “and when I see you again, I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

“Not if?” Jaskier manages to ask breathlessly as he wraps a hand around Geralt’s cock, guiding his hips.

“No. When.”

Jaskier tangles a hand in Geralt’s hair and kisses him hard as he sinks onto his cock, inch by glorious slow inch, and his moans taste like satisfaction. He takes Geralt like he’s made for it, rolling his hips to take Geralt deep, hands braced on his shoulders, head thrown back. His back is arched beautifully, exposing his elegant neck and the crude marks Geralt has left there, stark and unapologetic. Geralt lets his hands rest on Jaskier’s hips, not to guide or hold but simply to feel, the warmth of his skin, the stutter of his hips when every few thrusts he gets the angle just right. Incomprehensible noises are falling out of his mouth, words that are half moan, half curse, but sometimes Geralt catches words that surely can’t be meant for him, words like _beautiful_ and _perfect_ and _gorgeous_ , but his hand slides up to cup Geralt’s cheek like he’s something to be treasured.

He can’t remember the last time someone wanted him like this, or wanted him at all, can’t remember the last time he had something more than his own hand in his bedroll, quick and clumsy, and suddenly it’s almost too much for him. He snaps his hips upwards a few times, Jaskier clenching around him, and wraps his hands loosely around Jaskier’s cock as he spills, letting Jaskier thrust into his fist until he follows Geralt over the edge, making the most beautiful sounds Geralt’s ever heard, and all for him.

Geralt gathers them close, presses their foreheads together and lets Jaskier just _breathe_ until his chest stops heaving. He rolls languidly off Geralt and flops onto his back, a blissful smile lingering on his face, and Geralt rolls onto his side to watch as Jaskier swipes a finger through the mess on his chest then licks his finger clean.

“Well,” he says happily, still breathless and trembling, “I do believe you said something about paying me in satisfaction, didn’t you? Safe to say we can consider _that_ debt well and truly paid.”

Geralt doesn’t bother to fight the smirk.

Jaskier wakes as the rising sun strikes his face, and doesn’t bother with any pretence of sleeping in, however much he’d like to, just this once. Geralt is still deep asleep beside him, face relaxed and open, sleep dreamless. It’s a shame to leave him, but neither Malcolm nor Hestia have ever tolerated him sleeping past the first rays of the sun, eager to be fed, and they’re prone to leaping on the bed creating their own unique cacophony if he ignores them. He doesn’t want to risk them disturbing Geralt, so he presses a soft promise of a kiss to Geralt’s temple and hauls himself away from the warmth of the furs. He takes Geralt’s shirt instead of his own, relishing in its smell as he pads down the stairs with bare feet, a smell like adventure and heroics, sword oil and hoof oil, leather riding tack and _Geralt_. He hasn’t bothered with any semblance of bries, cock hanging free as he feeds his two menaces and makes himself tea. He’s in no hurry to dress; the shop will be quiet all day, and he likely won’t see a single customer ‘til late afternoon, when last night’s revellers inevitably come looking for their hangover cures.

He props the door open onto the empty square, sipping at his tea with his hands wrapped around the chipped mug as the chill of the early morning mist wends around his ankles. Maybe he simply won’t open at all. Perhaps, when Geralt finally wakes and sees Jaskier in his shirt, cock peeking out below the hem, he’ll be encouraged to follow up on his promise to give Jaskier a proper fuck the next time they saw each other (which, _technically_ , will be whenever Geralt wakes). And, even if he doesn’t call in that particular promise today, it’ll be nice enough to spend a day drinking tea with a handsome man, revelling in the post-Saovine peace that always falls, the lingering smell of bonfire and apple in the crisp morning air.

And if Geralt can’t stay, well. Perhaps Jaskier will follow.

**Author's Note:**

> References to my favourite ASMR videos? In my fanfic? It's more likely than you think. Shout out to anyone that spots them and knows the videos. There's also a reference to a novel in there so bonus points if you spot that one, drop it in a comment if you spot any of the references.
> 
> This fic was only supposed to be like 4k words but it didn't turn out like that because I have no chill, who knew.
> 
> Big thanks to [vvitchering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchering/pseuds/vvitchering), [gotfanfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction), and [Hazel_Athena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel_Athena) for looking over this for me, and also to vvitchering for putting up with me screaming about this for the past month.
> 
> [Come take a peek at my twitter and say hi!!](https://twitter.com/Caelanmiriel)


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